All Trades But One
by Uovoc
Summary: "I'm Jack. Jack Frost." He bowed mockingly. Bod's blood ran cold.
1. Chapter 1

Bod took his time walking back from work. Even though it was only five, the light had long faded from the overcast winter sky. For the sake of the kids on his street, he hoped that the blanket of gray would drop some snow. He had found that he liked it better when the sidewalk in front of the house was populated with the neighbor's kids. Snow brought people outside in a way that months of rain didn't.

On this day, houses were alternately deserted or lit up like beacons, depending on whether the inhabitants had left to spend Christmas with their family, or whether they were the family. Bod's housemates had left for the airport two days go. He'd volunteered to hold down the fort and make sure the ferret didn't freeze to death. They'd been a little surprised, but hadn't asked any questions, in case he changed his mind. Their voices had floated down the hall as they packed.

"He's probably Jewish."

"Have you seen him?"

"Atheist, then."

He was neither. Mr. and Mrs. Owens hadn't been particularly religious folk. Becoming a ghost tended to make people loosen up about such things, anyway. For one, it had been anyone's best guess as to exactly what day Christmas fell upon, or which spring morning marked Easter Sunday. Rituals such as feasts and fasts and even gift-giving rather lost their meaning in the graveyard.

So when Bod looked at the trees which twinkled through windows, he felt curious, a little wistful perhaps, but not sad.

* * *

Any number of things could had tipped him off to the fact the boy wasn't a typical child. The fact that he was outside, alone, on Christmas Eve. His unseasonable clothing. His silvery hair and unnaturally pale skin. The fact that he carried a wooden stick as tall as he was. The fact that his feet were bare.

Bod considered himself extremely cold-hardy, but even he wore shoes in the middle of winter.

The boy was wandering aimlessly up and down the road. Every now and then, he walked right up to a house and peered through the window, seemingly unafraid of being seen. Then he'd back off, looking satisfied, and go back to banging on random objects with the staff in his hands.

A gust of wind blew by, and the slim figure leaped into the air. For a moment, he could almost be flying.

Bod let out a gasp, causing the boy to notice him. He grinned evilly, and the next thing Bod knew, his feet were slipping on the ice that inexplicably coated the concrete. Grabbing a lamp post, he suddenly found that that was icy as well. His fingers slid off the slick metal and he ended up flat on his back.

Peals of laughter that could only belong to one person rang through the air. His fellow pedestrian was standing over him, apparently talking to himself.

"Safety, schmafety, North. I deserve a little fun." Bod waited for him to offer assistance, but it never came. The chatter continued. "He's fine, it's his fault for wandering around on Christmas Eve, when—"

"So are you," Bod pointed out irritably, hauling himself upright with the aid of a nearby trash bin. "Thanks for the help."

The boy stopped midsentence, mouth open in surprise. Up close, Bod could see that the kid couldn't be much younger than himself. Three or four years, at most. Bod glared at his astonishment.

"Hello?" said the boy uncertainly, waving a hand in front of his face. Bod took a step back, blinking. "Can-can you see me?" He actually spun around to check if there was a person behind him.

"There'll be a bruise, but my vision's fine," said Bod, gingerly feeling the lump on his head. "_I_ don't think that was very funny."

"You're gonna be fine, I made sure the wind broke your fall," replied the boy automatically. "But—you are talking to me, right?" He gestured to himself.

"Yes, I'm talking to you," Bod snapped, wondering what the fuss was. The boy seemed to be struggling to digest this information.

"You wouldn't happen to know a kid called Jamie Bennett, would you? Or Sophie Bennett?" he asked suddenly.

"Never heard of them. Who're they? Who're you?"

"You mean you don't know?" The boy sounded incredulous. "But-but you see me!"

"I really don't know who you are, or why you like watching people nearly kill themselves slipping on ice," said Bod. A suspicion formed in his head. "Are you a ghost?"

The boy laughed at a joke Bod did not understand. "Close," he said. "Wanna guess again?"

Bod didn't particularly, but he said the first name that popped into his head anyway. Blame it on the season. "Santa Claus."

This caused the boy to roar with laughter.

"Oh, man, that's just too good. I'm gonna have to tell this one to North." He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. "Closer, but I'll make it easy on ya. I'm Jack. Jack Frost." He bowed mockingly.

Bod's blood ran cold. He thought fast. The man Jack had definitely been swallowed into the stone. Check. Silas had not contacted him with a warning. Check. As far as he knew, the man Jack had not become a ghost. Check. (Plus, the boy had denied it when Bod had asked him.) Lastly, this strange person just didn't feel dangerous. If he had wanted to hurt Bod, he could have done so any time while Bod was walking.

"I gotta say, you're a little older than most of my believers," remarked Frost, casually leaning on his staff. "Not that I care or anything."

Bod eyed the staff. It looked like it would hurt, but not lethally. Probably.

"So," Frost went on, "It's Christmas Eve. What're you doing out here? Everyone else is at home with their family."

Surely the real Jack would know the answer to that.

"You're not Jack Frost," Bod said without thinking. "I know who he is. And you're not him."

The boy looked hurt. "What? I am too. And will you quit looking at me like that, like I'm going to attack you or something. I swear, I've never nipped a nose in my life." When Bod continued to regard him warily, he kept talking. "Anyway, shouldn't you be getting back to your family?"

"They're dead," Bod said shortly.

For a moment the boy's face was unreadable. Then: "Oh."

That one syllable was all it took. It wasn't him, Bod realized. The man Jack, even when he was Jay, ahd never been capable of showing such genuine sympathy. They may have shared the same name, but this was someone completely different, though still out of the ordinary.

"Who are you?" asked Bod in a new voice.

All traces of sadness vanished from Frost's face. "Didn't I just tell you? Jack Frost, Spirit of Winter." He rapped his staff playfully on the trash bin. Fascinated, Bod watched as an icy flower bloomed on the metal surface.

Spirit, not ghost. "Shouldn't you be painting windowsills or something?" Bod said vaguely, remembering a folktale of Mrs. Owens's. "Making it snow?"

Frost shook his head. "Can't. Not until everyone's made it home. As soon as they're all in, though..." he grinned in anticipation, rubbing his hands together. "But till then, you could say I'm out of a job."

Bod had no idea what made him say what he said next. It could have been that he was more envious of his housemates than he would admit. Or maybe some part of him identified with this odd young man, waiting for the streets to be deserted so that he could run free.

"Would you like to come with me? Just until the roads clear up, I mean."

Frost reacted with delight, then worry. "Really? Me? I wouldn't be getting in your way or anything, would I?"

Bod shook his head. "No." He had the feeling, now, that Frost had been waiting for him to ask.

* * *

_I think Bod can see Jack, even though he doesn't believe in him, because 1) Bod's good at seeing hard-to-see things, and 2) Jack's technically already dead. So he's like a quasi-ghost. But easier to see than a real ghost, because he's alive. In a sense. That was the most contradictory reasoning ever._


	2. Chapter 2

_I subscribe to bookworm Jack. Just giving a fair warning._

_Bod has three housemates, all guys about his age. (What age is that? 20-ish, I'm guessing. The lack of birth certificate makes it had to verify.) Picture the typical slovenly, fresh-out-of-college fellows who are pretty clueless about domesticity. They make only minor appearances, since I don't like reading about OCs either._

* * *

The house wasn't much farther up the lane. Fumbling because of his numb fingers, Bod fitted the key into the lock and creaked open the door. Frost hung back for a moment, peering into the dark interior, then followed him in.

"The hallway light's broken," Bod warned, stepping expertly over stray shoes. "Main room works fine, though." A flip of a switch, and his current abode was revealed.

He felt a quick stab of embarrassment at seeing it through a stranger's eyes. Between the four of them, they'd only been able to afford the most basic furniture, so the floor was the primary storage area for their belongings. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Bod reached reflexively for the thermostat, then remembered that none of the other boys were home. They hated his habit of turning it off during the day, especially since he rarely bothered to turn it back on when he got home. Vlad, who got off work the next earliest, would walk in yelling, "Christ, Bod, we're not Eskimos here!" But Bod figured his present company wouldn't mind the lack of central heating.

Frost was examining his overflowing crates of books. "They're discards from the library," Bod explained, tossing his coat on a chair. "That's where I work."

He wondered if he should offer Frost something to eat or drink; if so, what? Hot chocolate was seasonal, but maybe ice water would be more appropriate? He settled for, "Can I get you anything?"

"Do they have any Cressida Cowell? 'Cause I've been meaning to get around to those," said Jack, elbow-deep in the hardback fiction.

"I meant food. But I can see about the books, too," said Bod, wondering how he'd give him the books, and where Frost would keep them. Did he have a home? A cave, maybe?

"No thanks, I'm good. About the food. But yeah, books would be great."

"Sure." Bod went to defrost his own dinner. He ate silently while Frost became engrossed in_ Coraline_. Once finished, he placed the empty tray in the trash, sighed, and started scrubbing at Henry's last cooking experiment, which had been soaking since Wednesday. He looked over at his guest, who was sprawled out on the floor.

"What kinds of things do you do, as the spirit of winter?"

"Huh? Oh. Snow mostly. Need a snow day, I'm your guy." Frost noticed Bod's involuntary glance out the window. "Don't worry, you'll have a white Christmas. North's just holding out."

"Who's North?"

"You know. Santa Claus." He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and promptly reburied his nose in the book.

Unsure of how to react, Bod proceeded to methodically dry off his hands. Frost made no further attempt to elaborate. Stepping over the prone body of his guest, Bod riffled through the nonfiction crate. A book on ancient China caught his eye, and he hunkered down next to Frost.

After a few moments, he got back up and relocated to the Autumn Couch. The air around Jack was positively frigid.

(The Autumn Couch was named so because, as Tom had said, "That thing's never seen a spring." It was the approximate color and odor of leaf mold. Henry, who fancied himself a poet, had ceremoniously dubbed it the Autumn Couch. He had then sprained his ankle when he jumped up on it to make the announcement.)

Presently, Jack shut the book with a snap. He rolled onto his back and let out a happy sigh. "Whew, whoever wrote that was seriously twisted."

As if he hadn't just been lying motionless for almost two hours, he leaped up to perch on the armrest opposite Bod.

"Hey, thanks for letting me stay here. It's been great. But I think I should get started on making the white stuff come down."

And with that, he was out the back door.

Taken aback by Frost's sudden departure, Bod scrambled after him. "Wait!" he yelped, bounding through the open door. He wildly scanned the windswept backyard. It was empty. "Jack!"

"What?" came the reply. Squinting upwards, Bod caught his breath. Forty feet above the ground, Jack's shock of white hair glinted in the moonlight. There appeared to be nothing holding him up.

"I'll get you your books!" he shouted desperately, now knowing what else to say.

"I'll come back for them!" Frost yelled back.

If he said anything more, it was lost over the rush of the wind. Bod waved both arms at him, and Jack brandished his staff in reply. Then he was off and away, skimming over the rooftops.

Bod stepped back inside, pulling the door shut softly behind him. He slowly went to pick up his book again, when the sight of the carpet made him laugh.

The Jack-shaped patch of frost hadn't even begun to melt yet.

* * *

"Microclimates," said Henry wisely.

"Santa just loves us," said Tom.

"It's going to be a pain to shovel," grumbled Vlad.

Bod said nothing. After all, it wasn't as if it was _him_ who had caused their house—and their house only—to be blanketed with more snow than all their neighbors combined.

* * *

Fun stuff. There isn't enough ROTG/Graveyard Book out there, so I'm doing my part to remedy the situation. How was it? Please review!

More Bod-and-Jack to come, I think, although there will be absolutely no slash. Driving lessons, maybe?


End file.
